


In the Arizona Desert in August

by sarken



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Political Campaigns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-27
Updated: 2004-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:26:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarken/pseuds/sarken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kerry takes a moment to think as the campaign travels through Arizona.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Arizona Desert in August

**Author's Note:**

> There's a little bit of everything in here, although it's just implied and some of it is only implied if you want it to be. Second person Kerry.

There isn't enough room to breathe out here on the campaign trail. Sure, when you step off the bus in Arizona, you're standing in wide-open desert, but you can never go far enough to catch your breath. (No, they tell you, it's too far.) You have to settle for standing just twenty paces from the bus, a Secret Service agent three feet behind you. You'll never get used to the way you can feel him following your every move.

Your back to the bus, to Elizabeth and John and Teresa, you (and the agent) look out into the blackness that has settled over the desert. It's like being on the sea at night; like being in the jungle. At night it's all the same, really, until people build cities and highways with neon and halogen lights.

The sun's been down for three hours. The temperature is dropping and you almost go back for a jacket, but instead you shove your hands down into your pockets. You don't feel like Teresa's unspoken "I told you, John. I told you it would be cold." You've done winter in Washington and New England; ten minutes out here in August won't kill you.

New England sounds so far away. When you set out, you didn't imagine how big America was, how small a bus was, how long three weeks were. Now you're in Arizona and heading west, away from everything you want. You want your home and you want the White House, but you're on the wrong side of the country. No matter how far the bus goes, though, there are other things you can't get away from. Your past is haunting you; your friends and your future are crowding you. You can only stroll so far away from your wife and your running mate before people worry and start to draw lines, and you've known for years that going for a walk won't put Vietnam behind you.

John yells to you, just your name (his name), just enough to jerk you from your thoughts. He might be waving to you, but it's so dark that you can't see. You know what he is telling you, though, as you watch the bus's headlights come on: you have to go.

You grind the toe of your shoe into the sand and for a moment you wish that you were a smoker so you had a better explanation for your action. Sulking doesn't seem very presidential, but you guess that's okay. Tonight you don't feel presidential. (Besides, only the agent saw, and he won't -- can't -- tell anyone.)

Hands still in your pockets and shoulders slouched, you walk back to the bus. The door squeals and closes behind you, not behind your agent. He's gone back to his car without even a "Goodnight, sir." You get the impression he doesn't like you very much.

Teresa, Elizabeth, and John are sitting at the table, trying to be polite as they stare at one another. You approach the table, but you don't stop or even slow down as you walk toward the back of the bus. You just tap on John's shoulder with two fingers and use your other hand to signal "come follow me."

Polite guy he is, he says, "Excuse me," as he stands, like he is walking away from a conversation. He might be; you have all learned to speak to each other with your eyes. It's less painful to tell stories through eye contact than through words.

He follows you into the sleeping area, a few square feet of bus closed off by a door and occupied by a bed. The door is what makes it as good as being home.

You sit on the bed, testing the unfamiliar mattress with a quick bounce. Neither you nor John sleeps here often; Teresa and Elizabeth usually share the bed as you and John stay awake all night, pouring over speeches and policies. The bed (the whole bus, actually) was meant for you and Teresa, but it belongs to whoever finishes the day's work first. Campaigns make for strange bedfellows.

"John?" Edwards is standing with his back against the closed door, wobbling each time the bus drives over a bump. You've been silent too long and he doesn't know what to do.

"Yeah," you say and lie back on the bed. You're not answering him so much as trying to get yourself to talk. It isn't until the bus hits another pothole that you say, "Yeah, I just wanted some time alone."

John looks slightly confused. He hides it well, though, just like he hides everything else. You wouldn't have noticed if not for spending two weeks with him in this bus.

"With the two of us and the closed door, no one will come back here." You throw your arm across the bed and your hand dangles over the edge. "Come on, lie down. We haven't had the bed in a while."

"John," he says, and you can hear the way he fights not to use your title, "what are we doing?"

"Trying to win an election." You know that isn't an answer to his question, but you also know he won't ask again. He makes your answer be the right one, just like he'll do as Vice President.

Yes, sir. Yes, sir.

You and he don't debate anymore. You try, but he just nods his head and agrees, so you're not surprised when Edwards gives in and lies across from you on the bed, as far from you as he can get on the small mattress. You can feel how much he would rather sleep in the front of the bus, which is strange. He was never this way before. You and he used to lie close in the center of the bed, not curled together like Teresa and Elizabeth, but close enough that your shoulder touched his. You miss that when you and he sleep up front.

But here you are again, too close and too far all at once. Something has to happen soon because you can't take this much longer. If John hadn't already dozed off, you would throw his question back at him: what are you doing? You're not sure.

Tonight will be just another sleepless night, you realize as your mind refuses to let go of the question. You know this feeling well. Only months ago you wondered what you were doing as you ran against Dean and Clark and Lieberman and this man who is now asleep at your side. Tonight you know what you're doing from a political standpoint, but your personal life is less clear. You love your wife, but you also love your running mate and his wife. Somewhere just past Ohio there started to be only one type of love. It would be easier if you knew which type of love remained. No, tonight you won't be sleeping.

With a sigh, you carefully get up and take the two steps toward the door. You look over your shoulder and see that John has already moved closer to the middle of the bed, relaxed, turned onto his side. Then you quickly look away and walk out the door.

It wouldn't be fair to anyone for you to stay.


End file.
